


The Road Not Taken

by msar27



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Camping, Johnlock Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 02:50:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3158453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msar27/pseuds/msar27
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Oh gosh. I'm sorry if it's awful. I haven't written anything with even half of a plot in so long it's like a foreign language to me now</p></blockquote>





	The Road Not Taken

John huffed loudly, jarring Sherlock out of his thinking. He glanced to his right in time to watch John's body slouch over the tabletop, forehead landing on his open anatomy textbook with a quiet thud. “Fuck...” he muttered to the diagrams.

Sherlock wanted badly to reach out to John, place a hand on his back to let him know that it certainly was not the end of the world failing a test. However, he settled for asking, “Something wrong?”

“No, Sherlock. Everything is perfect! I just--” John lifted his head slightly, resting his chin in the crook between the open pages. He seemed to have drifted off in thought, eyes glazed over and staring straight ahead. Suddenly, he brought his arms up slammed his fists on the table, closing his eyes tightly.

Sherlock hoped he wouldn't cry, wouldn't know what to do or how to act if he did. “So, you failed a test. It's not that big of--”

“Do not, Sherlock. Don't tell me it's _not that big of a deal_. It might not be for you, but it is for me. I don't care that you couldn't care less about school or passing or studying or me, for that matter. I don't want to hear it. I don't want to think about it.” The last sentence came out no louder than a hiss, for which Sherlock was grateful as they were sitting in a library. John opened his eyes and began breathing lightly through his mouth. He shook his head best as he could with it wedged in a book and returned to his original position, forehead pressed to the pages. 

“John--” Sherlock began. He didn't know what to say to make John feel any better. He was most definitely not the comforting type, and John knew this. However, something about the way John had said "or me" turned itself over and over in his head, taking place of the experiment awaiting him in his bedroom. Turning his head so that his cheek was squished against a diagram of the human skeleton, John looked up at Sherlock. Sherlock's indifferent facade had fallen and he almost looked concerned for John Watson. Looking at Sherlock with such a rare expression on his face, John felt the corners of his mouth lift up despite the growing pit in his stomach. Swallowing a breakdown, John swiftly lifted torso up, regaining his usual army-like posture.

“It's alright, Sherlock. I'm—I'm sorry. Can we eat something? I'm starving,” he said. As Sherlock's normal lack of expression instilled itself back onto his face and he began to open his mouth, John stood up. “C'mon,” he said, motioning for Sherlock to join him. He closed the textbook in front of him, shoving loose papers and a small notebook into the cover before sliding it into the backpack he had set on the empty chair next to him. Swinging the backpack over one shoulder, he turned to Sherlock.

“Are you sure you don't want to go home? You look exhausted and I don't particularly want to be the one to call for a cab when you fall asleep in a plate of pasta,” Sherlock said. He hadn't looked at John since he stood, but instead had been staring toward the exit of the abnormally quiet library. He took a sharp breath in, jutting his chin out and turning on his heels to face John. A small smile was creeping at the corners of his mouth again. “We can, if you want,” he added quickly, noticing that John's brows were furrowed, his big blue eyes peering up at him trough thick lashes. “I know a place,” he said just below a whisper, the words barely audible in the silent building.

“Yeah, sure. I mean, if you're up for it.” John began walking briskly toward the glass doors without a second glance at Sherlock, who was following closely behind. 

***

 

"Um--I'll take spaghetti."

"And for you, sir?" The waiter was young, but obviously older than both Sherlock ad John. Probably a student at university. The old stains dotting his black trousers appeared to have been there for quite some time. His hair was cropped short, and he smiled nicely at nearly every customer. Sherlock was no exception. Sherlock politely peered up from behind his menu, catching the waiter's golden brown eyes surveying Sherlock's mop of curls with a stupid grin playing at his thin lips. 

Sherlock closed the awkwardly large menu with an air of finality and crossed his hands on the booth table, placing a careful smirk on his otherwise unreadable face. "No," he started.

"No?" John and the waiter seemed to have the same simple thought process, as they interjected at precisely the same moment. Sherlock's eyes rolled of the own accord, and he sighed quietly. 

"I'll have a glass of wine, please. I know I'll regret saying this, but I'll trust your choice," Sherlock said playfully. He caught John staring at his out of the corner of his eye, but he held eye contact with the waiter until he nodded curtly, scribbled on his small tablet, and fled to the back of the restaurant. Sherlock leaned back, clearly pleased with his successful feat.

John was still staring, smiling whimsically at Sherlock. "You're ridiculous," he blurted out. He shook his head slightly, chuckling to himself. "You know you're only seventeen, right?" 

After clearing his throat loudly, Sherlock's small grin had grown into a full smile. "Don't be stupid, John. Or course I know. Whether or not the waiter chose to acknowledge that bit of information isn't up to me." He settled in his chair, leaning his elbows on the edge of table and cupping his face in his hands. John did the same, and his amused smile fell. 

"I won't be able to go to uni on time if I actually failed that test," he muttered, letting his head fall. He ran his fingers through his already messy blond hair, a move Sherlock would have found attractive had John not been so distressed. John sighed loudly and a small noise escaped his body, warning him not to cry about such a pointless thing.

"I could...make you feel better," Sherlock suggested awkwardly. His eyes wandered absentmindedly to the unlit candle at the far side of their table. It was in a cheap glass holder, the candle appeared to have only been lit once or twice, and Sherlock wanted to break it in half. 

"What?" John's head shot up, his face confusion-stricken and his mouth, as usual, slightly ajar. Upon realization, Sherlock's eyes widened and his cheeks felt warmer than they should have been, even if it was hot outside.

"No! Not--I-" he stuttered. It was rare that his brain failed him, but he did not know what he had actually meant. Flustered, Sherlock's hands gripped the edge of the small table, accidentally shaking it. He was breathing much too loudly. Carefully removing his suddenly clammy hands, he placed them atop his thighs and focused on keeping his mouth from uttering anything else he may later regret. John was not a new friend but their relationship was still fresh, leaving John still innocent of Sherlock's attitude and carelessness, still unaware of Sherlock's sincerity despite his attitude and carelessness. Sherlock was still regaining his composure when their waiter returned. A stemmed wine glass was placed delicately in front of him, a large plate of spaghetti and a glass of water in front of John, and a small basket of six bread sticks between them. 

"Thank you" John said promptly. He took his eyes away from Sherlock's and began twirling pasta onto his fork. 

"Sure thing," the waiter replied, shooting a fairly obvious wink in Sherlock's direction as he left. He stopped mid-turn and added "Let me know if two need anything," his voice came out as more of a purr, which both John and Sherlock ignored. 

Sherlock crossed his arms. His wine had a very faint yellow tinge to it, clearly white wine. He picked the glass up and held it to the light before taking a small sip. He allowed a few drops to trickle down his throat and decided that it was cheap, probably only a year or two old. "Camping," he declared suddenly. Looking up from his glass, he saw that John had a string of spaghetti dangling from his mouth. John, catching Sherlock's exasperated gaze, quickly bit down and let the piece of pasta fall to his plate. "Good?"

John nodded, chewing quickly. After swallowing and taking a larger than necessary gulp of water, he grabbed his second bread stick. "Pardon?" he asked simply, nibbling the bread. 

"You mentioned a few days ago that you couldn't afford to go to camp this summer. With exams all next week, we won't have any assignments over the weekend. Would going camping make you feel better?" Sherlock wrapped his hands around the stem of his glass anxiously. 

"A camping trip?" John's eyebrows shot up in interest, pleasing Sherlock. 

"Mm. Yes."

"With you?"

"That's what I had in mind. Unless, of course, you wouldn't care for that," Sherlock mumbled, suddenly remembering their conversation in the library. His eyes fell to his glass once again. 

"That's what's got you all worked up? You actually think that I'm convinced you don't care about me? Jesus, Sherlock." John was clearly getting frustrated. He angrily bit the end of his bread stick off. "Of course you care about me. I was upset, and I'm sorry, but don't feel sorry for me." Sherlock was startled when John reached across the table, even more so as he pried Sherlock's hands away from the fragile glass and them in his own hands. "Sherlock," he started more softly. "Yes, I'll go camping with you. Thank you." His voice fell to a whisper, the sound of it in Sherlock's ears making his heart eat slightly faster, the warm feeling returning to his cheeks. He found himself smiling with delight as he squeezed John's hand. "Wait, why didn't you order any food?" The question brought him back to chair he had been sitting in, his eyes back to his still-full glass of white wine. 

He gently pulled his hands away to take another small sip, trying not to cringe at the taste. "I wasn't hungry. Finish your food, though. I have something to show you." 

John's shoulders slumped as he sighed contentedly, pushing his plate away from him. "I'm done," he replied with a sly grin.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Oh gosh. I'm sorry if it's awful. I haven't written anything with even half of a plot in so long it's like a foreign language to me now


End file.
